Working Black Friday in the Rich Part of Town
November 26, 2024 at 08:44PMNo one would describe me as girlish or chipper, but when I worked at the Camelot Music in the mall (in New Jersey in the mid-90s, to go full cliché), that’s exactly what I was. So Emily Mester’s essay on her post-college stint working at an Ulta store sucked me right in: “In life, my voice is boyish and jocular, but the one that came out was a breezy trill. Did you find everything today? I cooed. Nobody had taught me this phrase or this voice.” It’s a breezy but deep look at consumerism, customer service, and what sales does to the soul, and we should all read it before heading out on Black Friday.
Ulta sold a liquid lipstick called Beso, a true neutral red, and I became the reason it was out of stock. When I wore it, I sold, on average, three tubes of the stuff, just by smiling at the register. It was an acute, specific power. One woman was on the phone with her bank as I rang her up. As she was about to swipe, she put her hand over the speaker, stage-whispered What lipstick is that, and bought it on the spot. I mostly worked the cash wrap, not the sales floor, but lipstick remained my best shill. Whenever I could, I’d swatch the shades side by side on my hand, knowing full well my body sold the pitch. Sometimes, a hand was too small, and I’d clock out with stripes running clear to my elbow. I loved it when my voice sold. The sweet lull of hearing yourself talk crystallizes into an almost narcotic rush when your reverie draws cash. Whenever I’d convince a guest to spend ten dollars on an ugly little breast cancer trinket, or apply for an ill-advised Ulta credit card, I floated to the ceiling. My audience hadn’t just listened. They’d bought.
I sold things I didn’t own. I sold things I didn’t like. I sold things to people who were already buying them. It felt right, somehow, to compliment the customer’s impulses. To confirm them. It felt like the store’s final act of magic, to transform want into need. This is really a must-have, I’d say as I scanned the barcode. We can’t seem to keep it in stock. For a two-week period, a certain brand of rosemary-scented anti-lice children’s shampoo flew off the shelves. It’s always the clean ones, I’d say to the weary moms, beaming reassuringly as if shaking hands at a leper colony. I sometimes sold people to themselves, an act we also call a compliment when it’s done for free. I rang up a tall, skinny, slightly awkward-looking teenager and asked her, wide-eyed, if she was a model. Ulta employees do not work on commission. I worked on something else.
from Longreads https://longreads.com/2024/11/26/working-black-friday-in-the-rich-part-of-town/
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